When All You Have Left Is Nothing At All
by Multifan456
Summary: He knows he crossed the line and painted part of his soul black with Shaw; now he adds to it, layer after layer of blood from too many people, both enemies and allies and it is poisoning him. Warnings for panic attacks and mentions of blood. Set immediately post-DOFP.


Set immediately after Erik magneto's away.

Trigger warnings for: panic attack and mentions of blood.

* * *

He gets about 5 miles away when the steady blood loss and declining adrenaline drag him down like an anchor near a small secluded park behind a line of houses. It's starting to get dark, though in Erik's mind it's the dust and smoke from the day's wreckage darkening the skies, layered with acrid fumes of memories best left sealed.

Considering the widespread public panic, it's deserted, as are the streets and gardens around him. He lands gracelessly where the sidewalk meets the road and stumbles, eventually grasping for purchase against the corner of a shop entryway.

He surges on, driven by the need to find somewhere _safe_ where he can stop, breathe, calculate and move again, always vigilant, always planning because without plans, without aims, he will collapse inwards under the weight of his own emptiness.

Since first entering the camps, he's never known what it's like to simply _be_. Now, with Mystique saving the president and his plans having been wrecked, he is lost_. But not for long_.

The entry to said shop and a tall wall of hedge and shrubbery border a well-worn path about 3 feet in width. He fumbles along and thinks of the straight shadowed lines of the tracks he stripped off of the hills and the corridors of the Pentagon that are now a blur.

There is a set of swings and a slide and a climbing frame that has seen better days, the paint rusting and curling away from the surface. The distinct, boxy geometry is a welcome focal point after the intricate winding innards of the Sentinels and Erik latches on, drawn to the cool bars.

He clings to one at shoulder height, trying to keep himself upright but resigning himself to resting his head against it, the metal leaving grit and flakes of paint on his skin. The neckline of undershirt is sodden with blood below the right side of his neck and he is definitely feeling the effects. He had accumulated a small hoard of medical supplies, which was now, regretfully, back in the meagre hotel room he was staying in, one he had no chance of returning to in this state.

He has a fraction of his mind on his surroundings, looking out for pockets of change and buckles and buttons and clasps moving towards him. There is nothing. The rest is working in overdrive to reign in his fight-or-flight response, which is continuing despite his reserves of adrenaline being swiftly depleted. He's strung tight and feels grey. He sags against the frame, breathing becoming shallower. _This isn't supposed to be happening_. He used to be able to bounce back so effortlessly, rage and fear and bloodlust fuelling him, but now he's just _so tired_, and he wants to curl up inside the warm steady pulse of his power and fall asleep forever.

The ramifications of what has occurred hit him again moments later. He almost killed Mystique. He almost killed Charles. He most certainly killed Logan. He knows he crossed the line and painted part of his soul black with Shaw; now he adds to it, layer after layer of blood from too many people, both enemies and allies and _it is poisoning him._

No matter who he is and who he pretends to be he cannot run from them forever and it shows in the way he crumples beside the metal, ventilation erratic, mind foggy with panic. In moments like this he embraces the idea of death with a fervour so strong he scares himself.

He hates when this happens. He just hopes that he doesn't bleed out all over the play equipment - that would make for a deeply disturbing discovery; he would most likely make front page news for at least a month.

Eventually, when his mind can no longer support the continued levels of hysteria, he becomes limp and ragged, thankful for its end. The bullet wound is not critical, it is anatomically impossible. The real risks are infection and septicaemia. He knows this, even if his emotions don't agree.

He gives his limbs a chance to recover, whether it's for minutes, for hours, he's not quite sure. Emotions, memories and both physical and mental pain are slowly categorised and pushed back. He pushes off of the ground delicately with practised hands.

He breathes, he calculates and he moves, the pieces of a freshly remade mask shifting against each other. He always will, because he's a survivor, whether he likes it or not.

* * *

This came about mostly because I'm a piece of trash that loves a good angst-fest.

Also, there is not enough portrayal of his obvious PTSD.


End file.
